“Yes, sir.” Riley bobbed his head up and down emphatically. “I’ll swear it on a stack of Bibles.”
“He’s a lying old goat,” Towne fumed. “He’s trying to get back at me because I fired him from my silver mine in the Big Bend for trying to pull a fast one. He’s had it in for me ever since, and-”
“That’s a lie.” Riley’s voice trembled, but he straightened up and looked Towne in the face. “I told you then it was a mistake. The kinda mistake any man can make. You didn’t only fire me but you got me blackballed out of minin’. I never could get no job after that.”
“You didn’t deserve one,” Towne told him coldly. “He was my superintendent in the Big Bend in 1934,” he explained to the others. “He shut down the mine and came to me with a story about the vein being pinched out. If I had accepted his verdict, I would have closed down operations and later he could have picked up the property for a song and pretended he had found a new vein. But I suspected the trick and went down myself to investigate. You know the rest of it. It’s been one of the biggest silver producers in the country ever since. Of course I blackballed him with every mining firm in the country,” he ended contemptuously.
“It’s a goldarned lie,” Riley insisted wrathily. “I guess I did make a mistake about the vein pinchin’ out. But it was a honest mistake.”
“All that,” said Dyer wearily, “hasn’t anything to do with the murder you claim you witnessed Tuesday. Are you going to stand by your story?”
“You bet I am. It’s the truth, that’s what. I say it’s the plumb honest truth.”
Dyer jerked his head toward the door. A policeman led the old man out. The chief told Towne, “I’m booking you on suspicion of murder.”
Jefferson Towne’s big body seemed to shrink a little. “Just on the unsupported word of that old buzzard?” he asked hoarsely. “What motive would I have? If I did kill a soldier do you suppose I’d later run over the body and then immediately report it? Do you think I’m insane as well as a murderer? You know I jeopardized my chances in the election when I did that.”
“I know all that,” Dyer admitted. “I don’t know the answers any more than you do. But the Free Press has forced my hand. If I don’t put you under arrest now they’ll make it worse than it is.”
“Yes, I can see that,” Towne admitted stiffly. He glared at Shayne. “That was your doing. Sending Riley to Cochrane!”
“You had a chance to retain me this morning — at a modest fee. I warned you that you would need me before this was cleared up.”
Jefferson Towne tightened his lips and swallowed with difficulty. “I guess I made a mistake,” he muttered. “You’re retained now, and you can name your own fee. You’ve brought things to a point where we have to find out who murdered that soldier.”
Shayne shook his head and said sardonically, “Hire yourself someone else to pull your chestnuts out of the fire.”
Towne’s face became suffused with anger. He doubled his fists again, but Captain Gerlach got in front of him and shoved him out the door.
Dyer looked at Shayne wonderingly and shook his head. “And he said you could name your own fee.”
“I’m a fool,” Shayne said bitterly, “but I never have liked to be cussed out.” He got up and stretched. “I’ll buy you a drink.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Captain Gerlach stuck his head through the door with a big smile on his moonlike face and asked, “What’s that about a drink?”
Shayne said, “I’ll buy one.”
“You’re not in New Orleans,” Gerlach reminded him. “We’re pure in Texas. You have to buy it by the bottle and swill it in private.”
“All right,” said Shayne happily, “I’ll buy a bottle and we’ll swill it.” He turned to Dyer to ask, “How about it, Chief? Closing up for the night?”
“Might as well — but I don’t know-”
“Let’s adjourn to my office,” Gerlach suggested. “You used to drink cognac, Mike. How does 1912 Napoleon strike you?” the captain asked gently.
Shayne made a comical grimace and said, “I wouldn’t dare touch the stuff without a physician handy. Where’ve you got it stashed?”
Gerlach chuckled and said, “Maybe we can pick up Doc Thompson.” He led the way along the corridor back of Dyer’s office, stopping en route to tap on a closed door.
“Who is it?” Thompson asked.
Gerlach opened the door a crack and said, “Bottle of brandy bites man. In my office.”
“That I must see,” the police surgeon answered happily. He switched off the light and joined the trio in the corridor, looking suspiciously at Shayne over the sizzling bowl of his pipe. “It’s the hot-shot again. I’m thinking Towne didn’t get any bargain when he imported you to dig into this mess.”
Shayne grinned and asked, “Did Towne kill the boy?”
“How should I know? The Free Press has him drawn and quartered for it whether he did or not.”
The three of them followed the homicide captain another twenty feet down the hall to an office similar to Chief Dyer’s, though slightly smaller. There were half a dozen chairs around the wall, but the three men waited in an expectant group while Gerlach took out his key ring and went to a square safe in the back of the room. Squatting before the door, he opened the safe, saying cheerfully over his shoulder, “This is where I preserve the evidence in important cases.”
Groping inside, he drew out a bottle of aged Napoleon brandy, which he held triumphantly above his head. After closing and locking the safe, he stood up with the bottle dangling from his fingers. “Remember this?” he asked Dyer and Thompson.
The police surgeon stepped forward on his short legs to peer nearsightedly at the bottle. He whistled softly and said, “Didn’t I analyze those bloodstains five years ago?”
“The Langley case,” Dyer reminded him. “Mrs. Langley beat her husband’s head to a pulp with that bottle.”
“And not a crack in it,” Captain Gerlach added, setting the bottle on his desk. He rummaged in a drawer for a corkscrew, and sat down to wrestle with the cork.
The others pulled up chairs in a semicircle around the desk. Shayne’s gray eyes were intent upon Gerlach struggling with the corkscrew, but he asked Thompson, “How do you like Jeff Towne as a killer?”
“I like him.” Thompson sucked on his gurgling pipe. “If I’d known what I know now, I’d have made that p.m. stronger. Hell,” he added irritably, “I thought you were clearing the man, not hanging him for murder.”
“I thought so, too,” Shayne admitted wryly. “But that’s beside the point now. The only thing I’m going to get out of this case is the satisfaction of seeing someone hang.” The cork came out of the cognac bottle with a soft plop. “If Towne fits the noose,” he continued mildly, “I want to see him wear it.”
Gerlach passed the bottle to Shayne. After reverently sniffing the bouquet, he took a long drink and passed it on to Dyer.
Gerlach settled back in his desk chair and said, “There should be a handout from Manny Holden on this for you, Mike. Carter’s election will be a walkover.”
“That’s the only thing I don’t like about it,” Shayne confessed, frowning. “I won’t have done you boys any favor if Honest John Carter gets elected.”
Gerlach nodded gloomily. “That’s a cinch. He’ll probably appoint Holden Police Commissioner.” He took the depleted bottle from Thompson and poured down a stiff drink.
“The time element is the only thing wrong in the Towne set-up,” Shayne mused. “Riley sets the time of murder about two hours before sundown. But you figured the soldier couldn’t possibly have been dead more than half an hour before Towne ran over him at dusk.”
“Not more than that,” the police surgeon agreed, “else Towne and the ambulance attendant would certainly have noticed the condition of the body.”
